


The Hottest Night of the Year

by SteeleStingray



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Sex, Damen sings, Dancing, Drinking, Each chapter is for one couple, Everyone is sweating, Frottage, Going to the bar, M/M, Making spur of the moment anonymous decisions, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, There's a Motorcycle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-07-29 12:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20081977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteeleStingray/pseuds/SteeleStingray
Summary: It's the hottest night of the year in Isthima but people are still going out, converging on a local dive bar that has a reputation for good drinks and better music. If everyone is already hot and perspiring, why not sweat just a little more?





	1. Wine

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to take breaks oh god...  
I listened to Camila Cabello's 'Senorita' and pounded out the first chapter in like 2 days. I cannot rest, I tell you!  
I also don't know when I'll get the next chapter up but hopefully this can tide you all over until then ;)  
Also the chapters will go: 1. Laurent/Damen, 2. Pallas/Lazar, 3. Ancel/Berenger, and 4. Jord/Aimeric/Nik.  
Enjoy!

**Wine**

It was hot.

Akielon summers were always hot but sometimes there were those rare days where sea breezes and the dark cover of night didn’t do a damn fucking thing to cool down the city. The heat was heavy and drinkable, dark, and languid. 

People outside after hours reacted accordingly, draping themselves across anything remotely comfortable, drinking straight from sweating bottles, fanning themselves with old newspapers or paper fans.

Laurent had taken a shower only a half an hour ago, the tips of his pale hair still a bit damp, but it seemed to have done fuck-all. The blue cotton button-down shirt he had tucked into his tan slacks was already wet under the arms and at the center of his back and he felt beads of sweat trace down his neck and his chest. 

He had a fan in one hand and a chilled bottle of wine in the other hand--the latter he had been pressing occasionally to the nape of his neck after a drink--but the action of walking had him wishing for a metal tub filled with ice water. 

Ignoring the occasional sweet calls from sun-ripened Akielon men--young men, smoking cigarettes and leaning cocky against crates of empty wine bottles--Laurent continued to walk toward the sea front bar that looked like a dive but promised some of the sultriest music and authentic nightlife on the entire island.

At least that was what he had heard. 

Laurent heard the music before he saw the bar and he couldn’t help but time his walk to the tempo. He finished his bottle of wine just as the bar came into view. 

The place wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. 

It seemed that most of the establishment was a patio under an awning to allow the breeze to pass through and the party to spill out to the beach and the surrounding street. A piece of driftwood painted with Akielon letters served as a sign. 

The bar took up a sliver of space and was open almost all the way around; with no windows it would likely be shuttered behind metal sheets during the day. The tile floors were cracked, it was lit dimly inside and out by strings of fairy lights tacked to the walls, and a single ceiling fan served as the air conditioning. However, the place was bustling with semi-damp patrons and scooters and motorcycles were parked two vehicles deep around the bar.

Despite the crush of humanity, Laurent maneuvered his way in, setting his empty bottle on an unoccupied table. When he breathed in, the taste was all sea salt and alcohol and cologne, and he felt the wine as he found himself crushed up between gyrating, dark flesh. It was easier to pass when his hips matched their tempo.

He felt wanton by the time he reached a stool at the bar. His small ponytail had come undone, as had the top two buttons of his shirt. The bartender--a handsome, scruffy type with shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms--smiled at him after glancing at his chest and Laurent gave him half a smile in return.

“_ Panémorfos _…drink?” He asked appreciatively. 

Laurent allowed himself to feel charmed in this bar where no one knew him. The rational part of him knew he did not need another drink but the mood was already influencing him and it was fucking hot. “That.” Laurent pointed to the clear, label-less liquor the bartender held in his hand. It looked cold and wet, tempting… 

The bartender poured liberally, stray alcohol droplets seeming to evaporate the moment they hit the rough, dark wood of the bar, and added only a dash of soda for flavor. It would be mostly alcohol then. When he retrieved two ice cubes from a cooler with his bare hands--very unsanitary--he did not bother dropping them in the drink but simply handed them to Laurent. Laurent was letting the cool water snake down his back and collarbones and forearms when the bartender slid the drink over to him. 

“How much?”

“For you,” the bartender smiled, “no charge.”

Laurent sipped to hide a smile--shit, the drink was _ strong _\--and left a generous tip. He was aware of the bartender’s gaze as he took a lime wedge from the counter and suckled it before dropping the rest in his drink. He turned on the stool and looked out at the crowd, always interested in watching. 

The heat of the city seemed to emanate directly from the bar what with how close people were getting to each other.

Dancing was done in slow motion, clothing clinging wet to thighs and chests, any bare flesh glowing gold under the fairy lights. Kissing looked to be less strain than actual breathing and, in the right light, it almost looked like people were making love with slow, deliberate thrusts. Laurent loved this aspect of Akielos; the desire seemed genuine. 

There were small groups around the edges of the crowd, looking for a dance partner or a familiar friend, and many more waiting for the sweet relief of their drinks. His gaze moved on to the haphazard stage that had been set up in the corner closest to the beach, all of the sound equipment placed on empty cartons used for carrying wine.

There were three performers on stage and Laurent had to admit that they were good.

The main singer was a lithe, pretty thing, his golden curls hanging down in his face as he strummed the guitar on his lap. The one keeping tempo next to him was also slim, his black hair tied back in a wavy ponytail and Laurent noticed how he kept sneaking glances at his partner while he played.

The final musician, also a guitar player, was…_ exactly _ his type.

Laurent almost missed his lips as he went to take another drink.

The man smiled as he played and swayed with the beat, his guitar looking tiny in comparison to his height and the musculature of his dark, tattooed arms. His white tank top was all but translucent against his dark skin and the straps of his black suspenders were strained tight against his impressive chest. His hands were big, but deft and quick on the strings, and Laurent watched as he mouthed the words as his companion sang them. Laurent was breathing in alcohol fumes from his glass as he watched. 

Dark palms set a beat on the reddish wood of the guitar and Laurent felt his pulse keep time with the beats. He could not stare so long without being caught and--

And dark eyes looked up from the strings, scanning the room, and fixing firmly on Laurent. Laurent was riveted, beads of alcohol dribbling from the corner of his lips and the man smiled in a way that made Laurent think he was on the receiving end of a lot of stares. He had a dimple too, deep in his left cheek. 

He inclined his head, still smiling, and a spiral of dark curls fell in his face. 

Laurent tried to take another drink but, much to his surprise, he found his glass empty. He might have poured half of it down the front of himself, soaking his shirt. Or it could be sweat. He couldn’t tell.

The dark gaze was heating him from the pit of his stomach and he had to turn away.

“Water.” 

The song ended as Laurent got the glass of water he asked for. The rim tasted of salt and the water tasted faintly of tequila but he still drank and tried to catch his breath before he began to dream. It was so hot, he slid his palm up the back of his neck, moving his hair so his skin could get some air.

“Ice.”

The voice came deep and soothing from behind him, the roll of thunder over the sea, and when Laurent turned, he momentarily forgot how to breathe. The red-brown arm reaching past his head was tattooed with lions and bands of geometry and laurels. Heat throbbed from him. 

The man smiled down at him, cheek dimpling again, as the bartender tossed a few ice cubes into his open palm. 

Laurent found his breath again as the Akielon guitarist pressed the blissfully cool ice against the back of Laurent's neck. He was helpless to the relief, again getting caught in that gaze, as the water dripped down his spine. He’d heard Akielons were bold and handsy but…nothing to this extent.

“You’re burning up.”

“It’s fucking hot.” Laurent said. Unthinking, his hand reached up to guide the man’s wrist, sinking the ice lower until it was almost under the collar of his shirt.

“You didn’t like the music.”

“I did.”

“But,” he paused only a moment to suck at one of the cubes before returning his hand to Laurent’s nape, “you were not dancing.” He smiled down and Laurent could see he was imaging Laurent grinding, pressed up against some Akielon who would guide him with one hand on his hips and the other on his thigh.

Laurent smiled up. “I’ve only just arrived. It’s hot. And I am…not a good dancer.”

The musician looked Laurent from face to torso, his dark eyes lingering at the hips just a moment longer than necessary. “I don’t believe it. Most good dancing is finding the right partner.” The cold palm, ice melted, spread across the skin of Laurent’s neck and ever so slightly slid up into his hair. 

Laurent would not normally allow such intimacies of a stranger but he was hot and weak and _ melting _. 

The music began again and Laurent glanced over at the two slim youths left to play alone. “They’ll be needing you.” Dark eyes flicked back to what had obviously been forgotten and he shrugged, threatening the straps of his suspenders.

“Erasmus and Kallias will be fine without me.”

Laurent was inclined to agree. The two were playing some kind of winding, sweet tango and the ‘dance floor’ seemed even more packed than before. “Ah…”

“Come with me.” The man said, extending a hand. 

Laurent’s body moved before his overheated mind and he gripped the Akielon’s outstretched hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. He was unsteady on his legs, pitching forward. He felt a wide hand cupping his waist and used his free hand to steady himself against that massive chest.

The man looked down with delight at Laurent’s hand and Laurent could almost hear his thoughts. _ How bold you are now _. 

The man pulled Laurent to the center of the crowd, bodies brushing against them from all sides though Laurent’s entire back was protected by the wall of muscle behind him. Laurent’s back was pressed against the Akielon’s chest, the warm hands resting firmly on his hips, one muscular leg pushed between Laurent’s. They were bent so low, Laurent was almost sitting on his lap; Laurent’s arms were stretched upward until he was cupping his dance partner on the soft shaven part of his nape. 

The singer Erasmus sang like he was begging his lover to take him right there on the stage and the Akielon man began to move behind him. 

He rocked his hips to the melody, shifting Laurent’s hips gently with his hands.

It was dancing underwater, it was the lightest movements possible to be considered ‘dancing’, it was making slow love with wet clothes on. Laurent placed almost all his weight on his dance partner as his hands wound through those dark curls. If he was breathing a little heavy, he could blame it on the heat of the room. 

Laurent tasted tequila on the sweat that dripped onto his lips.

As his hips were guided from side to side and he relaxed enough to make the motion a bit more circular, pleased with himself when his partner hummed in approval. Feeling bolder, Laurent raked his nails lightly down the Akielon’s perspiring neck and he gasped as one hand on his hip moved to his chest and pushed. 

There was not a sliver of space between them. They were melting together. 

At one point the Akielon put his hands on Laurent’s knees and slid them up the length of Laurent’s thighs. “Let me know if I overstep.” He whispered. 

Laurent responded by sliding those warm hands down off his hips and onto the tops of his thighs. He hoped that was answer enough.

He was breathless by the time Erasmus finished his second song--or was it his third? Laurent couldn’t keep track. Looking for a change of pace, perhaps sensing Laurent’s exhaustion, his Akielon partner went to go fetch more ice and changed their dancing position.

This time their chests were pressed together, Laurent basically riding up and down on the man’s muscled thigh. He could feel a healthy heartbeat when he gripped onto the black suspenders for balance. With every grinding motion of their hips, Laurent felt like he was hurtling towards a fairly dangerous decision.

At least dancing felt more natural.

He let his partner take the lead with his hips, but he allowed his hands to wander. He daringly let his hands toy with the dark, soft curls, the straps of the suspenders, letting his arms curl up under the man’s arms, hands across that wide back. Though the Akielon’s gaze never wavered, Laurent had to look away on occasion before he lost himself.

Someone jostled past on the way to the bar, pushing Laurent deeper into his partner’s arms. He looked up, startled, and that handsome face was closer than ever before. “Are you alright?”

“You’re not…” Laurent gave himself away by sneaking a glance at the man’s lips, “You’re not _ close _enough.”

He smiled in response, eyes flicking down to Laurent’s lips and Laurent could scarcely hear him over the music. “How close do you want me?” 

Laurent yanked his suspenders, pulling him close so that Laurent could kiss him. He felt one hand cup the back of his head where his hair was damp with sweat, while the other pressed into the small of his back. A line had been crossed but Laurent didn’t care. 

It felt too good.

When the both of them broke apart for air, the Akielon’s eyes were sparkling, even in the dim light of the bar. Laurent wondered what he looked like. He felt helpless. Hot and helpless to the man. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” His dance partner asked.

It sounded like an innocent enough question, but Laurent knew it wasn’t so simple. Getting out likely meant going to some private secluded place to strip down and use tongues to cool down. Laurent was not the type for casual, anonymous sex…normally. 

He had never met someone who seemed worth it. 

He looked at that fine body, the handsome face, remembered how easily those dark fingers splayed over the guitar. Fingers sliding up his legs and arms. It was hardly a difficult decision. 

“I want to get out of here.” He said. 

“Come with me.” The Akielon grinned, standing swiftly and taking Laurent’s hand. With his impressive form, he cut through the crowd with ease and led Laurent out of the bar. It was only marginally cooler outside. 

Of course the man passed by the line of scooters, striding to one of the sleek, attractive motorcycles parked behind the bar. Laurent was beginning to wonder if his drunken mind had simply made the man up. 

No one was so perfect. 

He straddled it expertly, the straps of his suspenders hanging loose at his waist. He looked soft, sweet in the moonlight as he smiled. “Are you the big spoon? Or the little spoon?” He likely meant to ask where Laurent would normally sit on a bike but…Laurent also imagined the positions in a bed. 

“I’m the knife.” Laurent said. His voice was ragged and sharp as serrated steak knives.

The Akielon seemed to like it. He watched Laurent with undisguised desire as Laurent walked steadily to the motorcycle and slid on behind him. 

Helmets were not provided but safety was the furthest thing from Laurent’s mind at that moment. 

“Hold onto me.” His companion instructed as he began to maneuver the bike back toward the street. Laurent was only too happy to oblige, breathing in deep as he rested his cheek against that endless back. 

Beneath the heady scent of sweat was the tang of gasoline and--sweeter--the traces of cologne. Laurent could smell bergamot and orange peel, shuddering as the motorcycle engine rippled up into his throat.

He drove fast. _ Of course he did _.

They soared through the almost empty cobbled streets of Isthima and the breeze felt so good through his sweat soaked clothes that Laurent could have cum just from the relief of it. If they were to ride all night, it would still be a lovely way to end the night.

Even though Laurent wanted more. So much more.

The man parked in front of one of those old-style Akielon hotels: creamy, peeling stucco, tall thin windows, and rooms that were surely only cooled by a single fan mounted on the ceiling. Laurent could hear the sea as he was helped off the heated bike and he looked over as his companion jangled old, iron skeleton keys.

“Do you want to come in?” There was sweet hesitancy in his voice. There was no shadowy bar and sultry music to blame bad decisions on now. 

“It’s a bit late to ask that don’t you think?” Laurent asked, relishing the smile he received in return. 

“I should probably get your name then. I’m Damen.”

“Laurent. Is there a shower in this establishment?”

“Yes, but to conserve water, two people have to use it at a time.”

_ Maybe not so hesitant after all _. “Is that so?”

“House rules, I’m afraid.” 

Laurent ran his hands through his hair. “If it’s unavoidable…I’m sure I’m positively rank.” He walked toward the front door, and was flanked on either side by those rippling, tattooed arms as Damen went to unlock the door. Laurent felt a kiss behind his ear before something warm and wet trailed at the skin of his neck.

“You taste fine to me.” 

Laurent turned, torn between shock and arousal, just as Damen unlocked the door. He smiled, one arm lifting Laurent clean off the ground as he pushed his way inside. As Laurent expected, it was not much cooler inside. 

But Damen didn’t seem interested in giving him a tour.

He let the door close naturally behind them, tossing both his house and motorcycle keys on the floor of the tiled entryway so he could push Laurent up against the wall. Laurent had him by the hair, moaning before Damen’s lips even got close to his. Laurent wrapped his legs around Damen’s hips--which really wasn’t necessary, as Damen seemed strong enough to hold him up. 

One hand cupped the soft down of Laurent’s hair and Laurent ripped at the back of Damen’s white tank top, trying to find the bottom of it. Though there was no music, their hips remembered the pleasure of the grinding and Laurent’s toes began to curl in his shoes. 

Laurent pushed Damen’s head back. “Is there anyone else in this house?”

“No. I’ve rented the whole thing.” Damen said smiling. Laurent paused him so he could kiss that dimple. “Why? Would you prefer we move this…somewhere else?”

“I don’t think I’ll _ last _. The entryway is fine--gods! Are your clothes glued to your body?” 

“What a shame that would be. For you.” Balancing Laurent on his thigh, Damen reached over his head and pulled his shirt off, tossing it over where his keys had landed. “Shall I wait?”

_ Yes _. 

Laurent could not even come up with a cutting retort. 

His gaze held on Damen’s bare torso: dark, muscular, and slick with sweat. His trembling hands traced the planes of muscle, the dark lines of the tattoos inked onto his flanks. “This can’t be real…” He groaned, even as he felt something firm push against his crotch, “You can’t be real.”

Damen leaned his head down to bite softly at Laurent’s jaw and suck at his neck. “Does it feel real? How about now?” Damen was much more successful at finding the hem of Laurent’s shirt, his arm sliding underneath the fabric so he could leisurely stroke Laurent’s back and shoulder blades. “Now?” His kissed trailed down the exposed parts of Laurent’s chest; Laurent unbuttoned his shirt hastily to give Damen more territory to explore. He kicked off his shoes and felt the heat soaking through his skin.

“You’re very handsome.” Was all Laurent could think to say. 

Damen laughed a little as his hands pulled Laurent’s body free of his shirt. “Nothing at all in comparison to you.” His tongue made a wide swath across Laurent’s perspiring skin. “You’re _ burning _ up.”

“_ Pants _.” Laurent insisted, breathless. 

Damen set him down on the tile of the entryway, turning him so his chest was pressed against the wall and his ass pointed out. Damen pressed up tight against him, still apparently trying to savor Laurent in spite of his growing need. It was growing a _ lot _; Laurent felt it poking him.

Damen’s big hands trembled as they stroked the inner part of Laurent’s thighs, feeling the muscle under the fabric, rubbing at the crotch of his pants before fumbling for the button. Laurent hoped his fingernails were not leaving long scratches in the paint of the walls; it was cool at least, as he crushed the side of his face against the wall and shuddered. 

Damen finally conquered the button and slid Laurent’s pants and underwear down in one quick movement, leaving him bare in the entryway. 

No clothing was beautiful, it was cooling; no wonder ancient Akielons wandered around naked all the time. 

He heard a zipper behind him and pulled Damen against him by his suspenders. “I cannot wait.” He hissed. He couldn’t wait for Damen to kick his pants aside. He wanted release of the heat. 

Laurent felt it between his legs, rubbing the length of him, tickling the underside of his cock and he squeezed his thighs tight. Damen’s hands raced the beads of sweat down his body as he thrusted, still dancing and Laurent helped their cocks with his slick right hand. Laurent gasped for air after every moan and was delighted to hear Damen groaning into the skin of Laurent’s neck as he moved.

A hand cleared the wet hair from Laurent’s forehead before settling with two fingers in Laurent’s open mouth. Laurent wished they still held ice cubes as Damen’s other hand reached up to hold Laurent’s left hand, still clawing at the paint. Laurent was pressed almost flush against the wall so Damen could find some friction against his slippery backside. 

Just like their flirtation, this was frenzied and animalistic and hot. Goddamn, it was so hot. 

Laurent’s toes curled until he was up on them, one knee braced against the wall so Damen could go faster; he leaned his head back and let his muscles liquefy. He was so hot, he could feel every bead of sweat pooling in his curves, he could feel the saliva running from the corners of his open mouth, he could feel every drop of him that shot against the walls only a few seconds before Damen. He melted, and Damen held him.

Both of them slid to the cool tile of the floors, oiled and gasping, all tangled limbs and discarded clothes. Laurent knew, as he rested his head on the tile, he was going to need to be dragged or carried to the bedroom. He had no strength left. 

Damen cleared the sticky hair from Laurent’s forehead and kissed his gasping mouth. He hadn’t even taken off his boots yet.

“Water.” He whispered, when he found the strength to shift. “We’ll need it. It’s hard to sleep on a night so hot.”

Laurent smiled up at him; he never intended to sleep anyway. 


	2. Chili

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m doing this on mobile so hopefully the format isn’t fucked, but if it is I’ll update with the proper format the next time I have access to a desktop computer. Apologies if anything looks weird haha! (UPDATE: think I fixed the format after toggling with html; if anyone writes fic in that mode....fuck I have so much respect for you)
> 
> So, despite the fact that I only have my cellphone, I’ve been writing in snatches whenever I can (usually on the train). And even with all my love for Pallas/Lazar, this is only my 2nd time writing from their perspective. I need to remedy this in the future. But back to the bar we go haha!
> 
> Hello and much love from Italy!

**Chili**

It was hot.

Akielon summers were always hot but sometimes there were those rare days where sea breezes and the dark cover of night didn’t do a damn fucking thing to cool down the city. The heat was heavy and drinkable, dark, and languid.

People outside after hours reacted accordingly, draping themselves across anything remotely comfortable, drinking straight from sweating bottles, fanning themselves with old newspapers or paper fans.

But Pallas was one of those annoying people that didn’t sweat all that much.

As an Akielon he was used to the heat, he drank like a fish, and he was also chronically ‘allergic’ to wearing shirts. Not that he disliked sweat. Quite the contrary, he really enjoyed sweat in certain situations.

Pallas had sweated a little on the fishing charter he had gone on early in the day, and the shirt he had taken off on deck had subsequently blown into the crystalline ocean, lost to him forever. The rest of the day he had had to walk around the boat without a shirt and he was a few shades darker, a few degrees warmer than he was when he had gotten up in the morning. The island was bathed in the fire of sunset on his return to port.

He had come to the bar called ‘Kefi’ immediately after dinner.

Kefi was always dark and cheap and packed. Pallas had come several times and he had yet to be disappointed by an evening at the bar. It was so hot, the crowd tonight looked like they had all been pulled from the sea. The bartender didn’t even blink as Pallas pushed through the crowd without a shirt on.

“Hoops,” the bartender said fondly. The two of them might have been on a first name basis at this point if either of them had bothered to introduce themselves. Instead, Pallas called the bartender ‘boss’ and the bartender called Pallas ‘hoops’ for the small golden circles that looped through his nipples. “What’s your poison?”

Bar Kefi was known on Isthima for being generous with the alcohol ratio of their drinks, even if the beer was sometimes served in wine glasses and cocktails were mixed in coffee mugs.

Someone had hammered in driftwood shelves above the bar and the endless bottles perched there unsteadily, faceted and dusty as old gems. There were no labels; only prayers when people ordered drinks. Usually Pallas ordered whatever was in the boss’ hand but a night so hot called for something clear and cold.

“Give me something so I can breathe.” He said playfully.

“The air is better when it’s thick.” Boss teased right back.

Pallas forked over a bill and received a cut crystal glass of something so cold and sweet that it seemed to burn his hand and his tongue. There was a light taste of coconut, a little like the flavor of the cheap tanning lotion certain lovely men rubbed on their skin to make it glow gold--

Pallas had to stop his thoughts before he began to ache.

Sipping his drink, breathing easily, Pallas turned and glanced around the crowded bar. He was not necessarily…looking for anything but there was always a pull in his stomach that never seemed to abate. It was almost like the dull burn of alcohol, the tingle in his hips before he was stroked.

Kefi was perfect for burns and tingles.

Everyone looked as though they had been dipped in oil. Mouths were open as if in ecstasy and hands pressed in hard, smearing over wet clothes and bared skin in wide swathes. Pallas needed a bit more to drink before he would feel lush enough to enter the crush of gyrating humanity and find a dance partner.

The music was good.

Erasmus and Kallias came by the bar to sing fairly often and Pallas had talked with them a few times after their set. They were honey sweet and young, with voices to match.

Pallas had met the tall guitarist as well--Damianos, was his name, here on some holiday--and he was, as always, heartbreakingly easy on the eyes. All that sun-kissed flesh and his quick fingers and that smile, it was no wonder that half the island was in love with him. Pallas liked to pretend he wasn’t.

But he knew if Damen ever put down that guitar and walked over to him, offered him a drink and turned on a smile that was all sweetness and sex, Pallas would be in love. He was weak to that kind of thing.

It was easy to sit by the bar and watch, with cool alcohol and people in ecstasy around him.

The air in Kefi changed as Damianos set down his guitar and began to walk through the crowd, his dark eyes fixated on something near the bar. Pallas shivered like one of the guitar strings; in spite of not being in love, he imagined that he was the reason to stop the music.

The feeling passed, like the steam of breath, as Damianos cocked his head and smiled at another man at the bar. Even in the dark, he was lovely, all long legs and wide eyes. He’d melt like ice and the music would continue on without Damianos.

Pallas sighed.

“Sorry, sweet thing.” Someone said behind Pallas in a voice that sounded almost mocking for how cheerful it was. “I’ve been eyeing his boyfriend so I share your pain.”

Pallas turned around. “You must have a death wish.”

“I liked them both, to be honest. And I like your shirt.” The man said, glancing down at Pallas’ bare chest. “Suits you.”

He was a technicolor nightmare, a whirlwind, a mistake in the making and he smiled for the pride of it. His patterned shirt looked as if it had been yanked open, his pants hung low on his hips and Pallas could immediately tell that the man was not wearing underwear and that his tan likely stretched all the way down. There were gold chains around his neck that hung in three lazy, long ovals almost halfway down his abdomen. His boots looked be leather or alligator skin, any quality negated by the bright lime green color. He was an affront to the eyes.

Pallas smiled. He liked the confidence it took to wear such an outfit.

“Those gold?” He asked lightly, inclining his head towards Pallas’ nipple piercings.

“They are.” Pallas said, so surprised by the question that he answered without pausing to think. He left it unsaid that he was so sensitive that he could only wear gold or silver. “Why…why do you ask?”

A slight shrug. “Gold and whiskey taste good together.”

Pallas noticed then that he was drinking whiskey from a plastic cup. No ice either.

“Warm whiskey?” It sounded like hell.

“I like the heat.” He smiled at Pallas. “And I like you.”

“You’re bold.”

“Would you prefer if I was shy?” Shyness wouldn’t suit him. His smiles were too wide, too wicked to be hidden behind a veneer of shyness. Pallas smiled back and he heard Erasmus and Kallias start up the music behind them.

“No.”

“Good.” He smiled again and Pallas, two drinks in, thought that the man had a fairly attractive mouth. “Now. How long is the acceptable amount of time I should wait before I ask you to do that with me?” Pallas felt his face get hot as he followed the man’s gaze to where two men were dancing together. If not for their clothes, then one might have assumed they were fucking on the dance floor. “More of a second date kind of activity?”

“I wasn’t aware we were on a date.” Pallas said, smiling.

“Surprise.” There was a delicious kind of joy playing word games with the man.

Pallas rolled his eyes and took another sip of his drink. “You’ll look foolish, dancing up behind someone as tall as me.” He said it lightly, jokingly as he had practiced, but there was still a small chip of self-consciousness there. He took pride in his body but there were times he wished he could more easily fit in a lover’s arms.

“How could you take me for such a coward? And on our third date.” The remainder of the warm whiskey disappeared down his throat in two easy swallows and Pallas felt a slim, strong hand take his. “Let me dance with you.”

Pallas’ cheeks were warm as he was pulled into the crush of the dance floor.

His dance partner did not seem to mind that Pallas was a good deal taller and thicker; lean hips ground against his with such enthusiasm that Pallas began to wonder what those hips would be like under the privacy of cool bedsheets. He rolled himself in response, allowing his body to become liquid.

When the song ended and there was a lull, he tilted his chin up to the ceiling so he could breathe easier and felt a firm tug on his damp, black curls. It didn’t hurt him but it was surprising and he turned to face the one responsible.

“_Hey_!”

“Do you like to be manhandled?” His partner asked smiling like the devil himself.

“Do you?” Pallas shot back.

“_Yes_.”

_Oh_. He was certainly not shy. Pallas found he liked it; there was something refreshing about that unflinching honesty. “I guess…I suppose I do too.” His ‘date’s’ smile brightened, all softness and pride.

“Does that mean I can pull on these?” Quick thumbs swiped crescents right underneath Pallas’ dark nipples and he trembled as he felt them harden around the golden hoops. “Or more of a fifth date activity?”

“I’m losing track of our dates.”

“We’re on the one where you’re contemplating whether or not you’d like the taste of whiskey in my mouth.” He did have a nice mouth; it was the color of dark raspberries, with a wicked tilt to it. He imagined he’d like it to taste faintly of alcohol…

“And what’s your position on the tasting?”

“Stick anything you’d like in my mouth.”

It was tacky when couples kissed on the dance floor in other bars. But in Kefi, it seemed fitting. It was easier to move.

Leaning down to do it as the next song started, Pallas twined his hands through his partner’s dark hair, pleased to find it clean and soft. His lips tasted spicy like tobacco, not alcohol, and the stubble on his chin scratched at Pallas’ bare skin. His tongue kissed like it formed words: clever, wicked, and always pushing its limits. They still moved to dance, Pallas mimicking the lazy circles of his tongue. Those childish notions of not being able to breathe when kissed burned away; he could breathe in but it was like inhaling sparks.

“Let’s leave,” the Veretian suggested reasonably as the tightly-packed crowd bumped them into breaking apart.

Pallas leaned close to his ear and felt hands on his ass. “This is ridicu—I don’t even know your name!”

“General rule of mine, I don’t say my name aloud in bars.” His breath tickled Pallas’ ear. “I’ll be swamped for people wanting me to seduce them.”

Pallas laughed and rolled his eyes but the charm had worked. He allowed the devil to pull him outside and spin him around once under the leaves of a palm tree.

“Lazar. I’m Lazar.”

“Pallas.”

“Pallas.” Lazar said the name slowly, as if savoring the feel of it, and closed his eyes. “Mmm…I like it.” When he opened his eyes again, the green of them all but blazed. “I’d like to fuck you Pallas.”

Pallas hoped the dark of night obscured his blush. “You’ve said your name aloud. Where is the crowd waiting for your seduction?”

They were not alone outside, per se, the bar being hotter than some people could bear, but no one was paying attention to Pallas and Lazar.

“They’re all here in front of me.” Lazar said, without missing a beat, and gazed directly at Pallas. Gazed at him as if he was the only person on Isthima who mattered. Pallas felt the overwhelming desire to kiss him again.

“How are you so quick?”

“I’m slow when it comes to the important things.”

“Which date are we on again?”

Lazar kissed him again and Pallas decided that he also wanted to fuck motor-mouthed Lazar, see if the man’s tongue could be slowed. When Lazar broke the kiss, Pallas bent down to suckle softly at his neck.

“I assume you’re in some hostel with twelve other men?”

“Guilty as charged.” Lazar laughed. He must have known Pallas had made his decision. “Your place is a bit more private then? Or will we have to deal with sand in the slutty bits?”

“Follow me.” Pallas laughed, taking Lazar by the hand.

They ran together, tracing the coast, and Lazar was able to keep up with Pallas’ strong legs. It was clear what they were up to, the wickedness must have shown on their faces, because people whistled at them from balconies and sidewalks.

They did not stop running until they reached the dock where the rented houseboat was moored. It was not the greatest accommodation on the island but Pallas loved the docks and the sea and the sunrises he woke to in the morning.

Lazar was not deterred by the arrangement. “I’ve always wanted to role play as a pirate.” Pallas had to pause mid-step, he was laughing so hard.

The laughter subsided as he got the door unlocked and ushered Lazar in. Neither of them saw fit to turn on the lights.

“No air conditioning?” Lazar asked, sliding his fingers through his dark brown hair. Pallas was pleased to see that it waved a little when it was damp.

“I like the heat.” Pallas suddenly felt a small rush of shyness, folding his hands behind his back. “Should I turn on a fan?”

Lazar smiled at him. “Not a problem. I can just take my clothes off.” He gave a practical demonstration, his already-unbuttoned shirt pooling in the corner in a technicolor heap. He clearly saw that Pallas was surveying him, taking in his lean, tan body. “Care to join me?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re cocky?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’d look great with less clothing?” Lazar was not at all deterred. He nudged open the door to the mini fridge with his lime green boots and cracked the top off a bottle of raspberry lemonade. Pallas didn’t know if he did it on purpose, but Lazar drank without pause, letting rivulets of juice run down his chin and throat.

Pallas was already sliding his shorts off, though it was difficult as they were stiff from the salt of the seawater. He wasn’t wearing underwear and his body felt good being bare. “Yes.”

“Cocky.” Lazar said appreciatively when he finished the lemonade.

“You’re one to talk.” Pallas laughed.

The empty glass bottle hit the floor and the glass must have been tempered because it did not split on impact with the tiles. Lazar’s eyes were glistening like the wet tracks of sugar on his neck; Pallas imagined his lips would now taste properly of sour raspberries.

“You’re beautiful.” Lazar said, his voice dry and thirsty even though he had just finished his drink.

“Thank you.” Pallas felt a blush rise in spite of his best efforts. It wasn’t often that he was called beautiful. He saw Lazar’s quick green eyes dart back up to his chest.

“If I might make a suggestion…”

“Oh?”

“You should get another gold hoop.” He was kind enough to demonstrate where by removing his pants and showing Pallas the slim golden cock ring half hidden in a thatch of wiry dark brown hair. “I’d be more than willing to order you one.”

“You’re ridiculous.” The words had no bite and Pallas smiled as Lazar came even closer, their chests almost touching.

“We could match.”

“I’d…I’d like that.”

“I’d like a bed. Do you have one?”

Pallas laughed and rolled his eyes, but he took Lazar to his tiny bedroom. He had forgotten about the large box of condoms by his bedside but Lazar seemed pleased to see them.

“Thank god you’ve bought enough for tonight.”

And then Pallas was pushing Lazar down onto the fraying bedspread, their lips crushed together into a pulp of raspberry lemonade, alcohol, tobacco, and sweat. When Pallas first settled himself on top of the green-eyed Veretian, he took care not to put all his weight down until Lazar begged him in a jagged whisper:

“_Crush me, Pallas_.”

And Pallas let the weight off his elbows, letting it all rest on his hips. Lazar groaned as he rocked his hips; they didn’t need lube just yet since his sweat was so slick. And Pallas yelped after he rolled his hips and something hot and slick swiped his hole; he wished it would have caught and slipped in, his tongue curling in his mouth for the want of it.

Lazar’s hand slapped wetly against the false wood of the side table, groping for the box of condoms, and Pallas lunged to the opposite side. In the drawer he tore open was a bottle oil that slid on like a cool, wet tongue and he let it melt between him in two thick drops.

Lazar was whispering sweet, dirty words under his breath, calling Pallas a ‘lovely slut’ amongst other things, and Pallas murmured back only one retort.

“I’d like to take you.” He whispered, his voice as thick as the oil. He could feel the cool band of the cock ring through the condom, pressing against his buttocks.

“I’d like to see you try.” The response was as much genuine excitement as it was a challenge.

And Pallas lined his hips up without his hands—a trick he had learned during guiltier fucks—and impaled himself on Lazar with enough force that Lazar would have sore hips for days. Lazar moaned, those green eyes rolling back in his head.

Pinned by Pallas’ superior weight and musculature, Lazar was all but helpless to take control. His heels drummed on the bed as Pallas rode quickly, the beat dying down to faint butterfly tremors in his thighs as Pallas slowed to his liking. At least his mouth was still in working order as he listed all the things he’d like to do to Pallas in a half-drunken rasp.

_I want to tie you up want to spank you want to fuck you on the deck under the stars. I want to drink you down and call you ‘sir’ want to have you in public want you to fuck me, oh fuck me gods! I want it, I want—_

His hands clapped to Pallas’ ass and spread it, his hips thrashing up as far as Pallas would let them.

Pallas groaned and leaned down so his curls were pooling on either side of Lazar. The man was not the longest or the thickest he had ever taken but, by the gods, did he know how to use what he had been given. The ring of gold had heated inside Pallas to the point where he wondered if the muscles inside his body had slid it off Lazar by accident.

“Pallas, Pallas!” Lazar wheedled, stretching his lean body out. “I-it’s—I’m—!”

Pallas slowed and pulled back in surprise; the man talked such a wicked game and yet he was ready to burst after a scant fifteen minutes of lovemaking?

As Pallas pulled back, slippery Lazar wiggled free, kissing Pallas’ mouth before melding his body against Pallas’ broad back. “I’m teasing. I want to hold you now.” The rakish smile was thick in his voice.

He was good; gods, he was good and Pallas gripped the sheets so they did not slip through his fingers. They rolled with the rhythm of the waves and Pallas felt Lazar’s tongue trace the planes of his shaking muscles. The cock inside Pallas was a live wire: brushing against every inch of him, twitching with desperation.

Pallas let himself feel it. The desire rippling from Lazar’s skin was enough to make him drunk with want.

_I _want_ it, I want—_

Pallas yelped when he came, the air seeming to grow thick as he gasped for it. Lazar’s smile soaked into his skin and he tugged at the hoops of Pallas’ nipple rings. Like a shot to the hips, Pallas came again.

“You are—,” his voice came out in a helpless gasp, “cheating.”

No one ever came after him, a fact he considered a point of pride even if he did not cum at all. And Lazar had made him cum twice.

“Quality over quantity.” Lazar laughed, pulling his cock out to show it bulging against the gold of his cock ring. “I want to savor you.”

“C-cocky!” Pallas almost bit his lip as Lazar began to thrust again and Pallas nearly came a third time in the span of three minutes. He was laughing then, laughing as he thought of all the things he was going to do to Lazar in return. He was going to pour whiskey and lemonade on Lazar’s gold-plated lap and suck until his cheeks were sore, until Lazar was begging for mercy.

He was so excited that he clenched himself tight and heard Lazar join him in laughter.

“You lovely—you gorgeous—you’re going to break me!” He sounded delighted.

“Good.”

Pallas was unsure of when Lazar removed his gold cock ring—if he had removed it at all—but Pallas was very aware when the rolls of his hips went from teasing to abject need. It was sometime around Pallas’ fifth orgasm, when he was sure the liquid leaking from him was the dregs of the coconut rum he had ordered earlier in the night.

He felt he could try for one more and popped his hips up, rubbing Lazar against his favorite spot.

Their feet dug into the cheap sheets and Pallas swore they caused the boat to rock, waves lapping in time with the sharp ripples of his orgasm.

And Lazar watched his face, his expression during, with green eyes sparkling and smile like he had just found something very valuable.

“Pallas.”

Pallas found himself both embarrassed and pleased by the tender, breathless tone of Lazar’s voice and responded by clenching his muscles.

He saw the pleasure ripple up Lazar’s face and felt something shudder inside him before the saucy, exhausted Veretian became boneless on top of him.

Lazar was so slick on top of Pallas, he nearly slid off onto the floor. Pallas held him close and traced curlicue patterns onto the wet expanse of his back. Something bright caught his eye and he began to shake with silent laughter.

“What?” Lazar lifted his head up and smiled.

“You’re still wearing those fucking boots.”

And he found he loved it; he loved that Lazar had fucked him while wearing nothing but gold necklaces, a golden cock ring, and half-unlaced lime green boots. Lazar laughed with him.

They laughed until they ran hot again…which, honestly, was not very long.


End file.
